Rain, Rain Go Away
SouthWest Corner of Mirkwood - Dol Guldur Road
You stand at the south and west edge of what was once Greenwood the Great, now Mirkwood the dark and feared. The wood is thick and heavy with foliage, and stretches off to the north and east. Below you the ground is muddy in the warm dusk light. There seems to be some kind of path that skirts the forest edge. The forest lies to your east and northeast, beyond that the daylight blinds out all other detail...
Rain pelts down on the grasslands to the south, and makes a soft shimmering sound as it makes contact with the tree leaves above. A few dribbles of water make it down to the ground through the thick canopy.
South, Road NorthEast, and SouthEast
[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Dusk on Monday, Day 20 of June.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 14:56:42 MDT on Fri Mar 19 2010.
The quieting dusk lately has seen no rest beneath the boughs of Mirkwood. An incessant noise of sawing and hammering has taken place near this road, its intents unknown to all but the most vigilant watchers. And it so happens that one such watcher waits in the path above.
Haldir, his recent un-presence no doubt helpful for the orcish construction project, has newly returned, perched in a rain-drenched oak. His bow is at hand, though no arrow is set against those who may work below.
And work they do -- fervently at that. There seems to be a whole orchestra set amid this spot near the road, just a little south from the orc camp itself. It is a dreadful racket, with the breaking of wood 'neath axe, and the harsh sawing. Piles of sawdust have formed into messy plops of mud from the rain.
From the direction of the camp comes Bagaglok, steps still rather stiff and right arm jammed into a rather crude and torn looking sling. With the other claw he gnaws at a bone, but the shaman's eyes are raised, watching the progress of the foresters and workers as they toil. On the edge of this assembly line he stops, and the bone is dropped to reveal a returned pleased expression. "Almost finished at last, boys," he says. "Soon enough we shall go south...a lot easier without them pointed ears popping up, eh?"
And amid the cacophony, the sound of a rock dropping is truly hard to discern -- but drop it does, sailing in at a little bounce, so discreet and pitiful that its direction might not be divined at all. It rolls to a stop at the shaman's feet, barely aiming to brush at Bagaglok's toe-claws.
As the other orcs murmur agreement and continue in their work, Bagaglok appears to change his mind about the discarded bone but as he goes to snatch it back up again, the rock is already there, rolling to its halt. For a short length the small robed goblin simply stares at it, his dark face struggling between a disbelieving laugh, and an irritated frown. But he does not touch the stone.
Instead, the yellow stare shifts into a glare as one of the closest snagas stops to glance in that direction. "Think you're funny, do you?" growls Bagaglok, this time kicking the rock with his good foot toward the smaller creature. There is a yelp, and the snaga flinches backward. "That won't work anymore, garn...not now that I know it was not the trees at all who were angry."
Somewhere in the trees, Haldir's expression is one of pleasant malice. Another rock, slightly larger and quite persistent, seeks to end its trajectory in Bagaglok's path. It seems to offer no harm for the present: only a reminder that the leaf-ears are thoroughly watching the orc shaman's movements.
No harm perhaps, but nevertheless the Pledged shaman still manages to stub a toe on this second rock. The words swiftly turn into a hiss of pain and annoyance.
"I's not throwin' them!" protests the other orc just as quickly, eyes looking with horror at the newer projectile. "Not I's -- I's swears in the name of the Eye!"
This fails to improve Bagaglok's mood, and he rubs the foot for a moment. "A poor choice of words to utter in the presence of one of His priests," he says, looking thoroughly displeased. But he does nothing, not being in the condition for any physical fight he points rather back toward the rafts that are nearing their completion. "Get back to work before I do something particularly nasty."
No more rocks appear to hinder the unhappy Shaman's path. The forest watches the Mordain with the stillness so characteristic of Mirkwood's trees, disapproving and warning to all who may dare tread beneath its boughs.
And, perhaps, the eyes of Elves remain among those branches, willing and waiting to play more than a handful of thrown rocks into this endeavor of the orcish camp.
With a half-hop, half-walk, Bagaglok plops himself down on one of the discarded logs that had been found too small to use in the building. Here he sits, biting a little more violent than necessary at the bone he has now reclaimed from the dirt.
Beyond, the foresters work, oblivious to the foes hidden in the trees nearby. Though the rain has helped to mask the scent, something of it can still be perceived upon the damp air. "Stinking place always reeks of them light-lovers now adays," one of the larger uruks sniffs disdainfully, and a few of his fellows grunt their agreement. Hack, snap, saw...the toiling at the rafts goes on, the sound filling the darkness of the forest.